Back to My Old Self
by Jabraille
Summary: It's not easy being Flora. "Diabolical/Pandora Box" spoilers. One-shot.


((This story occurs at around the same time as "Chapter 4: The Phantom Town of Folsense" in Diabolical/Pandora Box (beginning afterward, retrospectively spanning to beforehand—try saying _that_ three times fast!), though the information revealed in it pertains more directly to a later part of the game. You have been warned!))

* * *

"Take it easy for a while, Flora. We'll be back before long."

"Thanks, Luke. Be careful out there. You too, Professor."

As the footfalls outside grew fainter, Flora sat heavily on the edge of the bed and began to sob.

And stopped almost immediately.

"I am the greatest scientific mind of my generation," she said in a sweet piping voice. "I do not _blubber_ like a _little girl_."

She cast off her fur-trimmed shawl, then reached around and untied her sash. The narrow band tumbled to the floor, followed by the folds of her salmon-pink dress. Underneath was a close-fitting black mesh leotard crisscrossed with straps; Flora unbuckled the straps, fingers playing expertly over the many junctures, and listened with smiling satisfaction to the pleasant _zip_ they made as they retracted into their housing. One buckle, caught at an angle with its sharp corner up against her ribs, prompted an almost tearful sigh at its release.

The mesh did not fall away so much as pop off, revealing a purple coat over a sturdy torso. Flora seized the coat's hem and yanked; a series of clicks told her that the network of stiff wires inside the fabric had snapped into place. She did the same with the sweeping scarlet collar.

Next she traced an invisible seam down the centre of her hand. The skin opened, or rather the skin-coloured glove did, baring another strappy mesh, which she then undid to expose long black-gloved fingers that seemed too long to have actually fit inside their wrappings. These too-long fingers unfettered the other hand with swift (if stiff) grace.

Then, as she bent toward her long black boots, a colourful curse issued from her soft lips. She impatiently forced the coat to crumple again, after which she was able to reach the boots; pulling them off uncovered that the skin of her legs ended at her shins, her ankles and feet again enmeshed. Once the "skin" leggings were carefully peeled off, she unhooked the fasteners at her hips, knees, and ankles, then took special care to straighten the legs and cuffs of the scarlet trousers beneath.

Lastly, with great care, she seized a handful of flesh over her larynx and slowly pulled off her head, beribboned hair and all. Two beady eyes gleamed through eyelets in the mesh hood; as soon as the clasps were released, the single queue of tightly-wrapped hair sprang apart into two long points, like a devil's horns, balanced with a pointed moustache beneath a proboscis of noble length.

"That's better," said Flora's voice. The speaker looked briefly surprised; then black-gloved fingers loosened the bolt holding a thick metal ring around a thick masculine neck.

The mesh garment—its elements connected to form a whole—had contracted so tightly that it fit into a single pocket of the purple coat. Said garment's former tenant strolled across the room to the mirror and straightened his tie.

"At last," he said, his voice rich and full as it should be, "I am the great Don Paolo once more."

* * *

He had been dreaming of robots—creating his perfect female counterpart, strong and fast and clever and evil—and of putting his arms around her buxom body, her synthetic skin as soft as that of the robots from that queer little town—

Then he started awake at the protracted squeal of train brakes, only to discover that he was embracing the arm of the sofa. He drew himself up quickly and took stock of his surroundings. There was Layton, his ridiculous hat slightly askew as he sprawled on the cushions. Unconscious, of course, as was the boy.

Fortunately, science does not sleep!

...At least, not for long!

Especially with something digging into his side _ouch_ what in Newton's name—

That idiotic romp with the boy on the "super cushy" sofa must have displaced one of the ingenious devices that constricted his strapping frame into the shape of that scrawny girl.

He had been outside the car when he heard Layton's voice, insufferably smug as ever, explaining the mysterious ticket to his grubby little apprentice. Of course, a _baby_ could have solved that silly riddle. Don Paolo hurried back inside.

In answer to his companion's queries, "Flora" offered some excuse about the car being stuffy. In fact, he had been looking for a secluded spot in which to rearrange his costume. Naturally, every other door in the railcar had been locked, and he hadn't had time to seek privacy in the dark station. (Blast!)

The way Layton and the boy fussed over "her" disgusted him. Such concern for the little dolt they'd unwittingly left back in Dropstone! He played along as best he could, even managing to hold onto Layton's sleeve as they walked through the dark station, but the pain in his side kept growing. Ultimately the matter was rendered moot by the sudden upheaval in the station—lights and sounds that came out of nowhere—almost eerie enough to disturb even the great Don Paolo. –But not quite, of course.

As they proceeded into the strangely neon-heavy town, he felt something... tension... a growing sensation that his disguise was failing... that, at any moment, the laughable Layton would see through him. Ridiculous, of course. Layton might be a dab hand at puzzles, but his powers of direct observation paled in comparison to his archenemy's.

Nevertheless, as some bold gadget burrowed into his ribcage, he decided to stage a strategic retreat.

"Ooof," said Flora.

* * *

Don Paolo massaged every inch of his nose; he peered anxiously at its reflection in the mirror, trying to judge whether its lengthy confinement had permanently altered its length or structure. While he had always had a remarkably elastic body, his distinctive and very _distinguished_ nose had borne such a squashing that he feared it might not fully recover.

Well, this was no ordinary nose. This was the nose of the great Don Paolo, Master of Science! His nose was a worthy appendage on the grandest of all faces!

Still...

The familiar tones of a much-hated voice caught his ear. He strayed from the mirror in the general direction of the door.

Could it be...?

That preposterous professor was _still_ in the hotel lobby! Chatting with the concierge, no less! What a pathetic specimen his nemesis had so often proved to be!

"...lady travelling with you feels better soon," the portly porter was simpering.

"Thank you for your consideration," replied Layton, touching his hat politely. "If she comes down before we return, would you be kind enough to attend her?"

"It would be my pleasure, sir."

"Ih-muh-mi-ma-mi-muh-me!" the illustrious scientist mocked. "Fools and flunkies all."

He pulled the mesh suit from his pocket and eyed it with no small revulsion. Soon he would cram himself back into his disguise, from the pert little boots to the pert little queue. Who knew that female impersonation would be such hard work?

One thing was certain: before resuming his role, he would definitely use the loo and take a nap—in precisely that order. Precision is key in science, after all.

He allowed himself a small precise smile. There was a sublime pleasure in feeling like oneself again.


End file.
